Hemlock And The Dread Sorceress (Book 3)

by B Throwsnaill

  Penelope, the Sorceress would have incinerated you if you’d stayed another second. I understand.

  Thank you. But I am still shamed. I will inform your sister.

  Hemlock turned to Tored. “Penelope lives, and Mercuria is seeing to her burns.”

  “That’s good. Otherwise, how would we return to the City?”

  “You make a good point.”

  “What happened in that tower?”

  “Should we see to the Sorceress, first? Is she still alive?”

  “Yes, I think so. But she received a massive wave of magical energy when the tower exploded. I wouldn’t worry about her.”

  Tored kept an eye on the Sorceress as he answered her question. He told Hemlock about his experience in the illusory image of his old town, and about the room with the Chalice.

  “Then something changed, and I could tell a great power was flowing through the cup,” he continued. “So, I finally did the only thing I could think to do. I grabbed the gilded hourglass, took a running start, and hurled it at the Chalice with all my might. The next thing I remember is waking up in the rubble and finding you.”

  “Amazing! That’s good work, Tored. You are lucky to have survived the blast.”

  Hemlock related what had happened in her encounter with the Sorceress as the people of Ogrun began to gather around the gates of the stronghold.

  “Is the Sorceress defeated?” yelled one of the bolder ones.

  “Yes!” replied Hemlock hoarsely.

  The people streamed into the courtyard and began to frantically search the rubble. When they located the remains of a wyvern, they cried out and others met them with small litters to remove the winged bodies.

  Hemlock was very curious about these goings on, and a look at Tored showed he felt the same. The smiling face of Esmeralda emerged from the gathering crowd before Hemlock could approach the rescuers. The little girl was followed by a woman whose resemblance to the child identified her as her mother.

  "These are the people I was telling you about," said Esmeralda.

  "Hello, I'm Tiffan. My husband, Canthos, and I are so very grateful for what you've done. Canthos was fighting in the arena when you came. You saved his life," said the woman.

  Hemlock was too tired for pleasantries. "What are they doing?" she asked, pointing to the citizens. She noticed Tored was still looking down at the Sorceress, and around them for signs of Falignus.

  "Oh, they are taking the fallen wyverns to their human counterparts. If both rest together, the wyverns that are not too badly disfigured by their injuries may yet return to life, and in doing so will allow the person bonded to them to live a long life."

  Hemlock felt a wave of relief.

  "We should tie her up," said Tored, pointing to the Sorceress.

  Hemlock nodded, and they cut some thick leather from the harness around the neck of the great bat. When Hemlock bound the Sorceress, the latter groaned and streams of blood came out of her nose. But she didn't awaken.

  "What are we going to do with her?" asked Hemlock.

  Esmeralda's face darkened. "We should kill her for what she's done to us!"

  "Esmeralda!" cried her mother, kneeling. "These are adult matters. Say goodbye to these brave people then leave us."

  The girl nodded, and approached Hemlock with her arms wide. Hemlock knelt down and embraced the girl for several seconds.

  Esmeralda next approached Tored, who looked mightily uncomfortable. He winced in pain as he hugged the little girl with his good arm, but the smile on his face made Hemlock smile in turn.

  "Alright, honey. Run off to Daddy. And be careful amongst the rocks!" said Tiffan.

  When the girl was out of earshot, Tiffan leaned in toward Hemlock and spoke in a soft voice that was filled with passion. "We want you to kill the Sorceress. I didn't want Esmeralda to hear it come from me—from all the adults of Ogrun—but we discussed it while we waited to see what would happen. We all said we would kill her ourselves if you weren't able to. But now, looking at her lying there helpless, I can tell that we'd struggle to do it. You should be the one to kill her. Please. Before we falter."

  Hemlock was conflicted.

  The Sorceress deserves to die. But why must it be by my hand? A hand that already has so much blood on it. Why must it fall to me?

  She looked at Tored, but knew that the warrior would be of little help in the decision—her decision.

  Suddenly, there was a strange sound like the reaping of stalks of wheat and the movement of liquid occurring in unison. Hemlock turned and saw the shimmering wraith of Falignus that she'd been looking out for. Somehow it evaded all detection and was now on top of the tied up Sorceress, drawing the life from her like a child sucking the juice from a slice of orange.

  It was over before anyone could act. The Sorceress' flesh drew in on itself and hung over her bones. The garish facial tattoos faded and darkened, and the strong jawline of the woman sunk in, parting into an excruciating death mask.

  The effect on the wraith of Falignus was equally dramatic, though opposite. The shimmering outlines of his figure became more distinct. Soon, flesh tones and the textures of fabric emerged from what had been nebulous and incorporeal.

  It was now a man that knelt over the hideous, dried corpse of the Sorceress. Pale skin covered veins and sinew, and an angular face with a shock of dark hair atop turned toward Hemlock with the look of someone staring into the sun.

  The voice was feeble and strained, but the puissant intonations were unmistakable. "I've wanted to do that for a very long time," said Falignus.

  Chapter Seven

  Merit was so far from his home in the Wizard Tower that the inner voice that normally plagued him had become confused. Merit had discovered he could cause it to lapse into long periods of silence by asking it difficult questions.

  I must return to the tower.

  No, I have business outside the tower, he thought.

  I don’t know where I am. I must return to the tower.

  I don’t know how to return. Can you direct me there?

  Merit relished the silence that ensued, although a small piston on the back of his head began to pump spasmodically. The creak of the heavy, wooden wheels of the cart that bore him and the occasional emanations from his mechanical body were the only sounds he heard. The wizards walking around him were quiet except for the periodic, soft grunts of effort from the ones in front of him dragging the cart.

  Unfortunately, the lack of conversation in the recent part of the march into the southern farmlands was the result of tension from a prior argument. Gwineval and Renevos were having a difference of opinion on tactics, and it erupted into a shouting match that caused the two leading wizards to proceed in brooding silence from that point on. Their subordinates followed the lead of their betters.

  Merit realized the time had come for him to step in and try to broker some sort of agreement between the two recalcitrant mages.

  “Gwineval, Renevos, I wonder if we might stop for a moment so I can discuss something with you―in private?” he said.

  Gwineval shot him an annoyed look, but then his features softened and he nodded in agreement.

  “Alright,” said Renevos.

  “Stop the cart,” said Merit. The wizards in front of him began to slow, and then stopped, causing a sudden squealing sound of metal on metal from the cart’s axles.

  Merit moved to the front of the cart while navigating past empty crates that posed as trade goods, and pushed a small, hinged stair down from the front of the cart. He proceeded down it, slowly. Gwineval and Renevos stood a few feet away waiting for him, each uncomfortable being near the other. The eight wizards with them moved to the other side of the cart, and the low murmur of their conversations soon drowned out the natural sounds of night in the southern meadows.

  “We’re near Castle Stargis, aren’t we?” asked Merit.

  “Yes, only an hour or two away, by my reckoning,” said Gwineval.

  “You must let me join in t
he attack, Gwineval,” said Renevos.

  “Impossible! Your impudence has been demonstrated. You will lead a few men in a reserve position and guard the flank of the main attack,” said Gwineval.

  “Gwineval…” said Merit.

  But Renevos talked over him. “What impudence? I told you, Ataros used the teleporting magic when he was too tired. Ask Otticus. If the men obey their training, the runes are perfectly safe.”

  “Even if that’s true, it was your job to deliver that training! Ataros is dead—dead because I had to end the suffering of the chattering mass of flesh he became after using your unproven teleportation magic! You won’t be making any more rash decisions during this campaign.”

  “Gwineval?” said Merit, softly.

  This time he got the attention of both wizards.

  “I saw what Ataros was doing right before he died. He was showing off. I don’t think he paid attention to his training,” said Merit.

  “Renevos selected the man to receive the new runes. Renevos trained him. If Ataros didn’t heed his training then maybe it’s because he wasn’t trained well enough!”

  “I take responsibility for picking the man. Perhaps his temperament wasn’t good for being one of the first to use the new teleportation. But I trained him quite thoroughly, rest assured of that,” said Renevos, folding his arms under his long, braided beard and looking away.

  “When I read about Julius’ assault on the Light Dancers in the old City, he discussed facing these runic obelisks that Jalis and DuLoc now seem to be using. If they’ve build one of them near Castle Stargis, our only hope will be destroying it. Based on what I read in that book, Gwineval, you will need all the spell power you can muster. Julius was able to destroy them by himself, but his lieutenant required assistance. Hemlock told me what Renevos can do—his attack spells are first rate. You’re going to need him,” said Merit.

  The ridges over Gwineval’s eyes flared upward, and he glared—first at Merit then at Renevos, who still looked toward the distant horizon. “Hem…” he began, looking at Merit, but then clamped his jaw shut. He clenched his clawed hand into a fist and slammed it into his other palm. Then he started to walk. Merit feared he was storming off, but he just started to pace back and forth. Gwineval stopped and looked up and to his left for several minutes. When he finally spoke, he grunted as if each word were something distasteful being spat from his mouth. “We’ll attack in two wings. I’ll command the left wing, Renevos the right. Merit will stay behind with Otticus to guard the flanks.”

  “Otticus won’t like being left out of the action,” said Renevos under his breath.

  Gwineval snarled. “But he’s got your precious teleportation runes so he’ll be able to move the fastest if we’re surprised.”

  The logic of the statement silenced Renevos. He nodded to Gwineval to continue.

  “If we spot the enemy, your wing will hold fire until I select a target. Once I strike, you will back me up with secondary strikes. If there’s an obelisk, that will be our primary target. Half of each of the wings will be armed with the Tanna Varran blades. If the Seekers are here, that should enable us to deal with them. Otticus should have one of these blades, as well. Any questions?”

  Merit thought about the plan. Having one man in reserve didn’t seem adequate, but he feared raising the issue and inflaming Gwineval in the process. “It makes sense,” he said.

  “I agree,” said Renevos, with a hint of petulance.

  “Fine, I’ll brief the rest of them,” said Gwineval.

  “HALT!”

  The cry had come from the front of the wagon and the assembled wizards. Merit recognized Otticus’ voice as the one who had cried out the warning.

  Merit looked down the path and spotted a dozen cloaked figures approaching. They didn’t heed the warning and continued to walk calmly down the dirt road.

  “Form up!” cried Gwineval.

  “They look like Seekers!” said Renevos as he ran awkwardly forward.

  Merit was left alone and moved toward the back corner of the wagon.

  The lead figure raised his forearm and the distant group halted. The evening was bright enough to allow the figures down the road to be seen fairly well. The lead figure pulled his hood back, and Merit relaxed a bit when he saw a full head of brown hair topping the flesh of a living man’s face.

  “What are a bunch of wizards doing on Stargis lands?” called the man.

  Merit heard Gwineval murmuring then Otticus’ voice rang out again. “We are merchants. We seek counsel with Jan Adaya at Castle Stargis.”

  “If you’re merchants, then I’m the Maker himself! I am Jan Adaya. State your business!”

  Gwineval spoke again and Otticus replied, “It’s not conversation fit for the road. Might we meet under a warm roof and talk at length?”

  Jan Adaya turned back and conferred with his men. Merit noticed that the men seemed unusually tall, and remembered this was a common trait of the noble lines of the southland.

  “Follow us. There is a large farm about a half mile down the road. We will meet there, and you may camp there for the night, if you wish,” said Jan Adaya.

  Gwineval agreed, and Merit clambered back into the cart. Soon they were underway, shadowing the southern men at a distance of fifty yards. Every so often, a southern man turned back to inspect the wizards, and his eyes invariably lingered on the cart where Merit lurked amongst the crates for fear of other eyes that might be on the caravan. The men were all fair skinned and long of limb. They had pronounced chins and long, prominent noses. They looked so similar that Merit wondered if they were all from the same family. But there were twelve of them of similar age, so this seemed unlikely.

  When Gwineval moved close to the cart to make a comment to Otticus, Merit motioned to him.

  “Why do the men all look so similar?” he asked.

  “The noble families of the south are close knit. They aren’t inbred, but neither are they bred amongst a wide swath of the population. The field laborers look different, and seem to descend from a different stock. They are slighter in stature.”

  Gwineval looked tense, so Merit allowed the serpentine wizard to return to his thoughts. They reached the farm in about half an hour. The southern men all gaped as Merit dismounted from the cart and joined the wizards.

  The man known as Jan Adaya stepped forward, his elegantly embroidered green coat was hooded and extended down to his knees. The leader of the southern men was heavily armed with a long sword at his waist, and a long bow and full quiver strapped to his back. He led the wizards and southern men to a nearby barn, lit with lanterns. Merit noticed two men and a woman scurrying away from the barn as the groups approached. These were shorter than the southern noblemen, and their simple attire marked them as peasants. Merit noticed the awestruck looks they cast his way before disappearing around a corner.

  Simple, wooden chairs had been placed around the interior of the barn, and Jan Adaya bid all present to sit. The peasants appeared again, and presented each man with a piping hot cup of tea.

  Gwineval pulled his hood back as a peasant farmer offered him a steaming cup, and the man cried out, dropping the cup onto the hay strewn floor. The peasant pardoned himself, retrieved the cup, and urged his companions out of the barn in haste, leaving the nobles and the wizards casting appraising looks at one another.

  “So, Gwineval, you have made the journey yourself, I see,” said Jan Adaya.

  “I have. Thank you for inviting us here,” said Gwineval.

  Jan Adaya nodded to Gwineval. “Please allow us to observe our tradition,” he said then bowed his head toward the floor, reverently. The other nobles followed suit. “We honor the Maker and ask for his favor on this assembly. In his name we gather.”

  “In his name,” said the other nobles.

  “Gwineval and wizards, welcome to Stargis lands. We regret the unusual location of this meeting. But, then, these are unusual times, aren’t they?” said Jan Adaya, motioning to the barn around t
hem.

  “Indeed they are,” said Gwineval. “We have come to discuss a matter of great importance with you. It concerns recent news out of the eastern mountains.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard some of this news. Does it also concern the rogue wizards who recently left your tower?”

  “Yes, it does. Have you had contact with them?”

  “We have. In fact, they are our guests at Castle Stargis right now. When I heard a caravan was approaching and they were only seen traveling at night wearing concealing cloaks, I hoped it would be a delegation from the City. Is that what you are? Or do you only speak for the Wizard Tower?”

  “I carry a scroll signed by Samberlin. I speak for the City as a whole.”

  “Good. Let’s get into it, then. What have you heard, and what is your take on it?”

  “The rogue wizards, led by one known as Jalis, have taken control in the east. They have entered into an alliance with a long departed… Well, we’ll call him a wizard, I suppose. His name is DuLoc. He claims to be a lieutenant of the Imperator.”

  “The Imperator? The enemy of the Maker? Interesting. It so happens that Jalis is also among our guests at the Castle. His description of DuLoc is quite different. He says DuLoc is interested only in liberating people from the domination of the City.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Jalis is a liar.”

  “If he lies, he has chosen his lie well. It’s a message that many find appealing.”

  “He is familiar with you and your concerns. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he has come up with an appealing lie.”

  “Well put. So, assuming what you say is true, then we have a group of heretics camped outside our castle. This is dire news, indeed.”

  “What has Jalis been doing, exactly? Did you reach an arrangement with him?”